Well that was helluva enjoyable.
The pilates and my first photo shoot with The Rugmeister: Look at those fine creamy threads! ...and the contrast to the floor... (The stilettos are in the picture because they look fucking good on him, don't they?)
Pilates, it turns out, is really painful yoga.
Well actually, the pain isn't excruciating, just a little inconvenient. You have to squeeze a lot of beach balls, and it's all about the breathing and the stretching.
My new pilates instructor seems to believe that she'll stretch me toned.
All I have to do are these exercises and a few other breathy things regularly, and my posture will be perfect and I'll probably be...a longer person.
Because it's the stretching at endurance that hurts. But only for a bit! I really enjoyed it actually, and walked out feeling a little light headed from all that heavy breathing and my back seemed to spark its own personality.
I am now a reformed pilates person. I think I like it.
Next mission, I want to start dancing. Yeah, lame. But I want to dance like...Jennifer Lopez. And those freestyle dancers at Pro20 cricket. For real.
I think they look good. And plus, it should be a hoot with my fucking rhythm.
It should be an amusing challenge.
Or I'll be boring and join the gym. It's right next to my building, and it seems a waste not to do it. But three sports all at once? That seems a little extreme. It seems Exercisely Fascist. You know, where discipline and sheer dogged will rule your entire being – I respect those who do it, but I don't know if it's me. Will weigh up the options and see.
But. Whatever. Rug.
Then I got home to unfurl it out onto the floor. Just rolled it out, nice and smooth. And immediately flopped into it face down, mattress-planted. For maybe, like....well time just drifted.
I was in heaven. Softer than even my dreams imagined.
I positioned the coffee table in such a fashion that the mat could not be touched by stray unMonica-like feet. 3RM came over and I celebrated by me actually cooking. (Or whacking a family size Woolies chicken pie in the oven, and switching it on.)
But one thing has stuck: a seed of worry, perhaps. Because the guy that carried my rug to the car yesterday, his name was Shiraz. Swear to God.
I really hope this isn't a bad omen.
My Warhols arrive today. I hope.